The optometrist’s office smelled weird. Like disinfectant and something too clean. Charlie sat on the edge of a chair, swinging his legs impatiently. His green shirt was rumpled, and his blonde hair stuck out in every direction from where he’d messed with it.

"I don’t need glasses," he grumbled, arms crossed tight. His voice was loud enough that a few people waiting nearby glanced over.

"You keep squinting at the TV," their mom said, flipping through a magazine without looking up. Her tone was tired, like she'd repeated herself a hundred times already.

"Come on, sweetheart."

Charlie scowled but slid off the chair, dragging his feet as he followed her down the hall. James stayed behind, but his eyes lingered on Charlie with a flicker of sympathy.

The exam didn’t take long. The doctor was calm and patient, even when Charlie got fidgety and kicked the chair legs out of boredom. By the end of it, there was no arguing—he needed glasses.

When they came out to the waiting room, their mom looked exhausted but unsurprised. James glanced up from his phone.

Charlie folded his arms tighter, his little face twisted in a scowl. He didn’t say a word the whole way to the glasses display.

It took another half hour to pick a pair—small, rectangular frames with wire black rims. Charlie didn’t like any of them, but these were the least offensive.

By the time they got home, Charlie had the glasses perched on his nose. He hated how they felt—heavy and weird—but the world was sharper now. Clearer.

James lounged on the couch, watching as Charlie stomped into the living room.

"Lookin' good, little dude."

"Shut up," Charlie grumbled, pushing the glasses up his nose with one finger.

Their mom leaned against the doorway, watching quietly. Her eyes were tired, but there was something softer underneath—like maybe this was one of those rare moments where Charlie wasn’t just a problem, but her little boy.